Always she had been a little interested in him, a little afraid,
sometimes venturing an innocent audacity, out of sheer curiosity
concerning the effect on him. But never had she succeeded in
stirring him to any expression of personal feeling in regard to
herself, one way or the other.

Probably he had no personal feeling concerning her. It seemed odd
to her; model and master thrown alone together, day after day,
usually became friends in some degree. But there had been nothing at
all of camaraderie in their relationship, only a colorless,
professional sans-gene, the informality of intimacy without the
kindly essence of personal interest on his part.

He paid her wages promptly; said good morning when she came, and
good night when she went; answered her questions when she asked them
seriously; relapsed into indifference or into a lazy and not too
civil badinage when she provoked him to it; and that was all.

He never complimented her, never praised her; yet he must have
thought her a good model, or he would not have continued to send for
her.

"Do you think me pretty?" she had asked one day, saucily invading
one of his yawning silences.

"I think you're pretty good," he replied, "as a model. You'd be
quite perfect if you were also deaf and dumb."

That had been nearly a year ago. She thought of it now, a slight
heat in her cheeks as she remembered the snub, and her almost